Missing Tickets
by Midnight Circus
Summary: When Ryoga runs away from home, he meets someone on a train.
1. Chapter 1

**Explanation to why this story exists is down below (in the A/N)**

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The train clacked along the tracks, passengers snoozing lightly in their compartments, or amusing themselves with crosswords and brain puzzles, desperately trying to rid themselves of the thick air of boredom.

In one of those compartments, a young, dark haired Asian boy sat, his legs crossed at the ankles and leaning drowsily against a navy blue bag, which was nearly twice the length of his torso. His eyes were half closed, and he would give an occasional nod of the head whenever the train hit a bump in the tracks.

The train went on, and the sky began to darken. The small boy had fallen asleep against the duffel bag, his soft snores filling the empty compartment. It had been a long journey, but it was soon coming to an end.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When he opened his eyes, light had already found its way over the horizon and into the compartment, bathing everything in a blinding sort of white. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and yawned, to moisten them with his tears.

A soft rustling of paper was heard, and the small boy opened his eyes, oriental brown scanning the compartment for the source. He didn't have to search far, for sitting right in front of him, was a smartly dressed man. Or, he would have been considered one, if for the crumpled gray jacket that lay morosely on the seat next to him were still on his body, not to mention the striped tie that hung loosely around his shoulders. With the two most important parts of the suit gone, the man now sat, quite indifferently, legs crossed, flipping crossly through a book, unbuttoned shirt collars and ginger curls flapping, unruly, against his cheeks with the wind coming from a crack in the window. To the young boy, he looked pretty shabby, despite the expensive looking satin trimmed lapels of the jacket, half hidden under the folds of cloth.

With a loud snap, the man stowed the thin volume away in his pocket, staring out of the window to observe the corn fields the train was now cutting through.

"Excuse me, sir," inwardly, he scoffed, but added the last word out of respect for his elders. "May I have the time?" His English had subtle intonations of Mandarin, or Japanese, but was otherwise flawless, sure sign that he had been in Britain long enough to grasp the language as well as the signature accent.

The man looked up, as if still expecting to see the boy unconscious, before pulling back a cuff, exposing silver and black leather, the logo stamped visibly on the sides. _Omega_. It was expensive, lavish, and completely unbefitting of a man sitting in the economy class cabin. The equivalent of a dirt cheap, budget plane ride. Probably worse.

And then again, the way he the man treated the suit jacket probably already hinted his richness.

"Nine-fifteen. I'm sorry, did I disturb you?"

"No." He stared curiously at the spot on the man's wrist where the watch had disappeared under the white material, before unzipping his bag. Small hands rummaged through the seemingly bottomless kit bag, groping around for something to pass time with. Nine more hours until the train reached the interchange. Five more stations…

While the boy lifted plastic bag after plastic bag out onto the compartment floor, the man had pulled out his book once more, scrutinizing the pages with furrowed brows. One plastic carrier was dropped onto the boy's lap, a knot he was trying to undo neatly securing it close. With his fingernails filed down to a bare minimum, this seemingly simple task was found to be a chore.

"Do you need… help with that?" The man watched the small boy struggling with the knot over the edge of Alice in Wonderland.

The boy looked up incredulously, "… No．thank you." He responded, curt, with an air of absolute finality.

The man shrugged, pulling a pair of rimmed reading glasses and perching them delicately on his nose.

The boy finally managed to undo the dead knot, and pulled out a notebook with a few pencils. Behind thick spectacles, the man watched this scene with growing interest as the boy pulled his feet onto the wooden seat of the compartment and turned to lean against the wall, body effectively spread out evenly across the entire bench. For a moment, he did nothing, holding his pencil a few centimetres above the note-paper, occasionally closing his eyes and raising his chin, as though he was trying to remember some long-forgotten memory.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he scribbled something onto the note paper. Too quick to be a drawing, too slow to be written words.

Like this, an hour passed, a few scribbles every ten minutes or so, then five minutes of deep contemplation. The man swept some of his auburn hair out of his eyes before starting on some witty rhyme Carroll had managed to insert into the story.

Without realizing it, he had begun to whisper the words under his breath, trying to make sense of it all, but not quite getting the genius of this work. It was creative, original, but… nothing seemed logical. Too many slapstick, in-your-face puns.

'_Be off, or I'll kick you down the—'_

"Excuse me," The boy struggled not to lose his temper, "do you mind if you keep quiet for a moment, sir? I'm trying to… concentrate."

"Oh I _am_ sorry," He replied, with a slight touch of sarcasm, which went apparently unnoticed by the young boy who proceeded to rub the eraser of the pencil against the denim of his jeans, absently creating a small pile of residue on the seat.

Silence reigned again. The train clacked along the tracks, making the ever annoying chugging sounds and knocking noises.

The man checked his watch again. Ten forty-five.

They still had a long way to go.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

With a whistle, the train drew into the station, and there was the distinct noise of flurried movement, people hurrying to their suitcases when the train doors opened. For an almost torturous fifteen minutes, the train remained stationary while the exchange of human traffic took place. Not a word. Just the scratching of pencils on paper and the impatient flipping of pages.

The train started up again, and the boy sat up nervously, ripping out the page of the jotter book he had been writing in and crumpling the sheet in his fist, carelessly tossing it onto the chair next to him and pushing himself off the seat. He slid the compartment door open and squeezed through the malfunctioning panel.

The man looked up from one of Alice's many monologues, and raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. With a glance towards the door, he reached out for the loosely crumpled paper-snowball, smoothening it against his pants.

It was a score. Even he, with absolutely no knowledge of music, could see that. Multiple lines divided into sets of five, dots sprinkled all over, some with tails, some looking very much like smiley faces. With a shrug, he re-crumpled the paper ball and aimed it at its original position, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs as he slug through the book once more. Music wasn't his forte.

'_The Lobster Quadrille?_'

Before he got the chance to groan out loud, a conversation outside distracted him once more.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I left it in my compartment," The familiar Asiatic voice drifted to his ears, "Can I show you later? I kind of need to use the bathroom right now."

There was a loud snort, "No reason why you can't hold it for five minutes and get the ticket. You think I'd never heard that lame excuse before? Get your ticket here now. Or better yet, show me to your compartment. Why don't you?"

"But I really have to go!"

"Now listen here, you little China-boy…" The compartment door was slammed open, a tall officer holding the boy by the back of his collared shirt, virtually dragging him back into the compartment, "Show me your ticket, or I'll throw you out right now. Boss says I can't have any—"

"Boss says what, exactly?" The man folded the book onto his lap and stared intently at the officer with false interest, leaning forward, formidable despite his blasé appearance.

"Oh, Mr. Holiday!" The officer looked positively baffled, and the young boy he was holding gave a confused, yet triumphant smirk, "I didn't expect… I mean it's such a… a… pleasant, surprise!"

"Oh please, just Daniel will do. People will confuse us if you keep using 'Mr. Holiday'. Now, who is this you got here?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Daniel, sir, but this boy claimed that this was his compartment. I'm sorry I intrude—"

"Quite the contrary," The man, now known as Daniel, gave a dangerously benevolent smile, baring his even, white teeth, "I was the one intruding, not him. Now, don't you have some other tickets to check?"

"… But his ticket…"

"Don't you think I would have noticed if it were missing? Now, off you go," Daniel Holiday shooed him off with a flippant flick of his wrist, returning to his book before crossing his legs again. The boy stared after the officer with a funny expression of a kind of befuddlement, before picking up the notebook and seating himself back onto the seat. He sat, wordlessly, for a moment, rolling and unrolling the notebook in his palms.

"You're important."

"I wouldn't say that, I am simply the brother of the owner of this rail company. It has its perks, you know," He laughed to dissipate some of the strain already palpable in the air.

"Brother…"

Daniel sensed the trepidation in the boy's voice and chuckled, "Don't worry, I won't turn you in. One ticket won't cost him the world."

"I do have a ticket."

"You do?" He retaliated skeptically, eyeing the unsurprisingly guilty expression on the boy's face.

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you…"

"I was due to get off three stops ago."

"And why didn't you?"

"I did not feel like it."

"Ah. Hm. Won't your parents be worried?"

"They won't worry." He shook his head obstinately, face suddenly dark. Then he announced, "I'm running away."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Mr. Holiday shifted in his seat with discomfiture. Was there a standard response to this kind of situation? Was he supposed to do something?

"I thank you, Mr. Holiday." The tension broke as the boy spoke again.

"Didn't I just ask to be called Daniel?" Daniel grinned, glad that the custardy sullenness had lifted.

"But you're so old." The boy argued.

"Excuse me? You have nerve, I give you that. For your information, I am at the prime age of twenty eight," He said proudly, flicking through the Alice in Wonderland with smooth, long swipes, "And by the way, what is your name? It's only right that I know, now that you know mine."

There was a pause, then the boy spoke up, speaking softly, like what he was to disclose was a secret, "Ryan."

"Ryan what?"

"E… You don't need to know that."

Daniel sighed, "I suppose I don't."

Ryan cocked his head to a side, looking more confused than ever, and opened the notebook, making a few strokes here and there. Daniel stared, impressed. Musical genius?

"So, uh," Daniel started a conversation, "Where're you from?"

"… Manchester."

"Manchester." Ryan did not miss the arch of a brow that appeared fleetingly on Daniel's face when he said the one word.

"Manchester. I'll have you know that I was born and bred in Britain. Not East Asia, no matter how unbelievable everyone seems to find it." He folded his arms defensively. Touchy subject.

Daniel dog-eared the edge of the page, abashed, "Oh, I just thought…"

Ryan shrugged, "You're not the first, neither will you be the last."

"I shouldn't expect so." Daniel said gravely. He turned to another page without actually processing the text on.

"Can I ask, why are you doing that? You're not even reading anything." The unspoken meaning was clear: it was irritating.

Daniel looked down distastefully at the book in his hands, turning it over and observing the back cover, synopsis printed in a dark grey, "Required readings? I suppose?" He said vaguely, waving the book in the air to accentuate this point. A small look of suspicion altered the contours of Ryan's pale face. He squinted suspiciously at the cover, before crinkling his face into a smile.

"Alice in wonderland? I like that book," He smiled, a wistful smile that did not belong on a boyish, ten-year old.

"That makes one of you."

"You don't?"

"Not a fan." He grimaced.

"Then why are you reading it?"

"Like I said, required readings."

"You cannot be forced to read Alice in Wonderland," Ryan shook his head in childish wisdom, "It is something you have to enjoy."

"The book doesn't make sense."

"It wasn't meant to."

"I think, being written by a mathematician, this book was meant to make sense."

"It wasn't written _for_ mathematicians, was it?"

Daniel surveyed the young boy, frowning. Something didn't quite add up, but he couldn't think _what_ was wrong.

"What's the time now, Mr. Daniel?"

"Twelve twenty five… almost thirty."

"Hmmm… what is your stop?"

"Edinburgh."

"Edinburgh, huh…" Ryan looked out of the window thoughtfully, looking at, but not quite seeing the fluffy white sheep that grazed lazily outside, "must be a nice place."

"I suppose so."

For a moment Ryan looked as if he were about to say something, but the moment passed, and he was fully focused on the notebook once more.

The train rattled on.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Mr. Daniel Holiday had had a long day. He had woken up at six the last morning to catch the plane, only to have been caught in a traffic jam, reaching the station just fifteen minutes after his flight had taken off.

He had used up most of his swear word collection, spewing them out at innocent, and highly offended airport-goers while he fumed, sitting on the bench while mourning his loss. That plane left once a day. He had missed it.

Now that he thought about it, he should have found something productive to do, but at the moment, work was something out of the question. And, he should probably have just booked a hotel for that night, taking the plane the next day. But somehow, all logical thought escaped him the moment he realized that his flight was gone.

So he had stormed into the train station immediately, and bought the only tickets available. The economy class, which, as his brother so delicately put it, the beggar's class. There was no bed, and only one bathroom for all to share.

But Daniel Holiday was an impatient person. Even if it was slow, and inefficient, he wanted something to do. Something to give him the peace of mind that he was getting something done, moving forward the entire time.

Which was why he hopped on the train without further deliberation, not caring that the train ride was a whopping twenty hours long, not caring that he would be later for the meeting _if_ he took the train, not even caring that he would have to miss nearly two meals.

No meals. And now, Daniel Holiday was bearing the full consequence of his stupidity. His last meal had been nearly twenty four hours ago.

His stomach gave a rueful grumble. Ryan looked up. Daniel scowled and folded his arms over his stomach, refusing to give in.

Ryan giggled, covering his nose and mouth with his notebook, his eyes pushed into squints by his obvious wide grin.

"Hungry?" Ryan asked rhetorically, voice muffled behind the book.

"Well—" Daniel started hotly, before being cut off by another rumbling noise coming from his abdominal area. Defeated, he wilted, "yes."

"Can't you just get some food from the kitchen? I'm sure they'll get you some, _Mr Holiday_."

"Oh. OH! Right, yes. Shall I get some for you too?"

Ryan looked every bit like he was about to refuse, but the prospect of food was just too tantalizing, and reluctantly, he nodded, eliciting a smirk from the now standing Daniel Holiday.

While Daniel left to abuse some authority, Ryan leaned back against the wall, staring at his almost blank scoresheet.

He had nothing to write.

A small buzzing vibration was hitting his knee. He had no idea why he brought his cellphone along with him, but subconsciously, he had packed it into the bag.

Perhaps, he was waiting, _hoping_, for someone to call him back.

He pulled the clamshell out of the side pocket by the chain and stared at the smooth shiny exterior. It was white, a shiny LED panel on the front displaying the caller ID. It was unblemished; Ryan had kept it in perfect condition by not using it at all.

_Home_.

The LED lights flashed the four letters, along with a tiny icon of a house to its right. Phone clasped tightly in sweaty hands, Ryan's hands shook, both with the buzzing of the phone, as well as the strain of not accepting the call.

The phone stopped buzzing. The boy was gripped with a small sense of satisfaction, as well as fear, instilled within him by ten years of training. Etiquette. He had never been allowed to reject a call.

He caressed the pearly corners of the phone, running callused fingertips against the cold metal.

The phone began vibrating in his hands again. A part of him told him to turn it off, but the second, stronger part convinced him to leave it buzzing. He could watch them as they panicked, calling him more and more, but unable to get through. They would worry, and for once, they would forget…

They would be focused on him. Him alone. They had already taken this long to realize he was gone, he may as well take advantage of this situation.

In any case, the note he had left them had been pretty ambiguous, written in the scribbled English and adorned with Kanji whenever he ran out of English phrases.

He stared down at the vibrating phone again, the LEDs now reading '_Mother_'. He took in a deep shuddering breath and tore the phone open, holding it to his ear with a kind of foreboding that he always got before he got a scolding.

"Ryoga." His mother's smooth, infuriatingly calm voice came from the other end.

"Mother." Ryan tried his best to imitate the same tone, but not quite getting the desired effect.

"Ryoga, what is the meaning of this?"

Ryan's voice shook as he tried to hold in the tears the tears the formed instinctively whenever his mother used that harsh voice.

"I… I don't want to live with you anymore."

"Don't be silly," His mother said dismissively, "Where do you have to go?"

Ryan opened and closed his mouth again. He had nowhere to go. And with what was left of his allowance, thirty pounds, he had just about enough money to sustain him for a week. Probably less. He hated that woman. That calm logic, that unpitying, harshness she always directed to him.

"Well…" His voice grew stronger. He squeezed his fist around the cell, his heart pounding in his ears, "_Anywhere_ is better than that _pen_ you call my_ home_!" his chest heaved at this dramatic pronouncement, and he was proud to hear silence from the other end.

"Ryoga…" His mother tried a different tactic, persuasion. Her tone dropped to a soft pleading, and Ryoga felt himself compelled to agree to whatever she requested, "Come home. Please?"

He might have just gone with her almost magnetic pull, if not for her next sentence, "I promise Dad will help you with your tennis…"

He froze, his clammy hands still gripped around the cell.

"NO!" He shot up to his feet. The movement, or perhaps something else? Sent the welled up saltwater in his eyes pouring down his face.

Tennis, tennis, tennis. Every day, it was tennis. Tennis here. Tennis there. Tennis talk at the table. Tennis shopping. Tennis moves.

And after _He _came, it became Ryoma's tennis. Ryoma's tennis prowess. Ryoma's the tennis prodigy.

All because he didn't like the sport, because he wasn't the genius his father made him out to be.

Because he played the violin. Because he hated the outdoors. Because he hated Ryoma. Because he… because he…

"Ryoga…" His mother had given up, and it was now his dad's voice on the other end, "please come back. I'm sure we can work something out…"

He was crying at the sound of his father's voice. The voice he so desperately wanted to praise him. The 'Good job' or 'That's my son!' that came whenever Ryoma accomplished some tennis move.

Never after he announced he could play 'The Little Magpie' or wrote some new score. It never achieved the same effect as Ryoma's new racquet grip or swing.

"Ryoga, I'm sorry if you think that we..." His father hesitated before he quoted the note, "… hate you. We love you Ryoga, you know that."

"You… you… don't… _show_ it…" Ryan choked out through sniffs.

"Please don't cry. Your mother and I, we love you very much. Even Ryoma. Ryoma, don't you miss your Aniki?"

"Ryoga-nii," Ryoma's high, lisped voice came, "Where are you? Everybody is getting worried. It is very funny you know. You must come back and—"

"SHUT UP!" he distantly heard his brother burst into tears, and felt some gratification. That brat was finally put into his rightful place.

"Ryoga!" his father roared, and Ryan cringed, before recovering.

"Don't _CALL_ ME THAT! Stop _CALLING_ ME THAT!"

"Excuse me?" Ryan jumped. The phone slipped from his hands and landed on the floor with a resounding crack.

"Um…" Daniel had returned, two boxes tucked under an arm, "I didn't mean to…"

Ryan stared at the man, then at the cellphone, beeping pathetically on the ground, then at the lunchboxes, then back at Daniel's face. It was nearly as red as his hair.

"Lunch. Thanks." He reached out for a box before getting back on the bench in one fluid movement, allowing no spaces for discussion or queries about what had just happened. While Ryan ripped the plastic cover off the Tupperware, the broken cellphone lay forgotten against the wall. The blinking had since died down. Daniel frowned at the boy, now almost a stranger to him. The light, sarcastic, child-like young boy had disappeared, leaving only this… person, now fiercely spearing a fried potato wedge with a fork, stabbing it multiple times before he managed to get it on the utensil.

"Ryan…"

Daniel was ignored as the boy began shovelling food nosily into his mouth without bothering to check exactly what he was getting into his system. After his mouth had reached maximum capacity, he began chewing slowly, taking in the texture of the food.

"So, that was your parents?" He started conversational.

Ryan observed the lump of tofu on his fork with puffy red eyes, suddenly very interested in its chemical structure. After a moment's hesitation, he spoke up, "Yes."

"You should talk to them, you know."

The young boy dropped the fork back into the box, shutting it with a snap of the lid. Talk? He almost snorted with derision at the very thought. Since when did they want to talk to him about anything? Other than tennis?

"It'll do you good."

"I don't want to. They don't want to."

"I'm sure they love you very much, Ryan."

"They don't. They only bother about Ryoma." He shook his head wildly, and his hair flew about with the movement.

Daniel stored the bit of information in the back of his mind. Ryoma… That was a Japanese name, wasn't it?

"How old—"

"Because Ryoma plays tennis." Shiny tears were welling up in his eyes again.

"Tennis?" Daniel was panicking,

"Te… tennis," Ryan sniffed, desperately rubbing the tears out of his eyes. It was bad to cry. It was _girly_. And so was playing the violin.

"Do… Don't cry! Please don't cry. Um, I'll…"

"And I don't have pretty fingers, like Ryoma." Ryan clenched his hands into fists, tucking the fingertips into his palm, out of sight. More tears leaked out of his eyes, and Ryan's breathing was uneven. Sobs racked his body as he hugged his knees close to his body, hiding his face while he rambled something or other in his native language. Daniel stared helplessly. He knew that there was something he should do, but he had no idea what. He stood up, and walked over to the boy, placing a shaking arm over his shoulders.

"There there…" He said, gauche, petting the boy's dark curls awkwardly, "Um…"

There was a gurgley sort of giggle from the boy and he looked up, revealing a wet face and red eyes, "you're hopeless."

"Running away won't get you anywhere," Daniel's voice got more firm once he realized that the boy was no longer crying. The smile was wiped off the boy's face as quickly as it appeared.

"I'm doing them a favour. They never wanted me anyway."

"And how do you know that?"

"They love Ryoma."

"They love Ryoma as much as they love you."

"No."

"Maybe it's just because they… they don't know what to talk to you about. They… they don't know anything about music, right?"

"They don't care," Ryan pouted obstinately.

"They do care," Daniel was strangely patient. He said soothingly, "You just have to give them time. And you also have to do your part to explain. Do you like tennis?"

"No." Ryan said immediately.

"Can you tell them that?"

Ryan looked down at his knees, at a loss, "… I can't."

"And why not?"

"Because… because… father wants me to become a tennis player. I cannot let him down."

"My dear, I'm sure you're letting him down even more if you continue to do what you don't want to do. He wants you to play tennis and _enjoy_ it. If you can't enjoy it, I'm sure he'll understand."

Ryan looked closely at the man next to him, "You sound very experienced."

"Hm. I wonder. Running away never does any good."

"So have you done it before?"

"Hm, I do it every day. When I have problems."

"I mean, have you ever run away from home?"

"Home? No."

"Then how do you know so much?"

"Secret. But you have to know, your parents will love you no matter what."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because they're your parents." He pulled his jacket over and retrieved a black leather wallet, pulling out two ten pound notes before tucking it into the boy's hand. At the boy's questioning glance, he added, "for the train home. Buy the right ticket this time."

* * *

Hello everyone

I managed to sneak a few hours into the computer, since my mom has taken my sisters out to a Chinese new year party, and being the antisocial nerd that I am, I refused to go. And, she left the computer terminal on before she left :P Please excuse any blatant spelling errors, because I couldn't use Microsoft word to save the document, and I typed it out with my email and saved it as a mail draft…This is actually my _Literature creative writing_ piece. I edited it to fit PoT and added some plot. The original was only about two plus thousand words long and at the end, they were still referred to as the man and the Asian boy…

Meh, I dunno, but I liked this one better. This story has no connection what so ever with my other Ryoga-centric fanfic. And it is NOT a romance, as most of you can see already, but somehow… I just had to add this. DANIEL IS NOT AND NEVER WILL BE HUMBERT HUMBERT!

So, to introduce some of the characters:

Rinko: She is based on my own mother, strict, but ultimately loves me

Ryoma: Based on my little sister. obnoxious, attention sucking, but very cute

Ryoga/Ryan: Based on my older sister. Very over-dramatic

Daniel Holiday: Based on my uncle. No emotional capacity when it comes to others. Childish, sweet. Can suddenly become serious when he is at work.

Nanjiroh: Based on my dance instructor. Kind, but can lose his temper super easily when he is stressed.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't think this is an epilogue (is it?)**

**But I thought this story needed a finer finish.**

**So yeah, enjoy.**

* * *

"Ryoga, have you finished practice?"

"Just five more minutes!"

"Ryoga," Rinko held her arms akimbo as she stared severely at her son, "Do you want to do well for the recital?"

Rolling his eyes in a typical teenage fashion, Ryoga replied, "yes mother." He slid off the sofa and reached for the remote, taking his time to locate the 'off' button.

_"We are here '_live_' at the premiere of _Wonderland_. Here with us today is Mr Daniel Holiday, director. So tell us, Mr. Holiday…_"

Ryoga stood, frozen to the spot, his index finger held to millimetres from the red button. Did he just hear right? He stared at the face in the screen, the face formed entirely of RGB pixels, but the same face nonetheless.

_"_Wonderland _is a movie about self discovery, and how to find a sense of belonging in the places that are most important to us. I think, its title already suggests that it is loosely based on Lewis Carroll's work…"_

_"Mr. Holiday, we are _very_ interested to know, what, exactly, inspired you to take on such an approach to the… the… _conventional_ Alice, I mean, aren't you afraid that it would be a bit radical?"_

_"Um… that's a tough question_," the red haired man laughed_, "As to what inspired me, I would have to say… well, the original book is definitely a factor, but what made me decide to take the original 'Alice' character to this level… I would have to say… it was a little boy I once met."_

Ryoga's eyes widened. He stood for a few moments in silent shock, before the small smile on his lips stretched into a wide grin, and he began to laugh, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all.

Daniel Holiday. _The_ Daniel Holiday.

The man who hated Alice in Wonderland.

A director. _Director_, of all things.

"Ryoga! Television, off, NOW."

"Yes, mom."

He pressed his finger down on the button, the last image of a smiling man imprinted into the back of his mind. He was wearing a suit.

How ironic.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Daniel Holiday stretched out on the recliner. It had been a long day at the premiere, but he had gotten it over with. He took a long sip of coffee and closed his eyes in relaxation. His thoughts drifted off to the day in the train, so long ago, the blurred image of the boy, Ryan, rippling to the surface of his thoughts.

He wondered how he was doing now. Did he get home? Did he manage to get along with his parents? Ryoma?

He was jerked back to reality by a loud ringing of the telephone. Lazily climbing out of the leather recliner, he picked it up, muttering the standard greeting.

_"Hello, brother."_ The voice was deep, reassuring, but the inflection was strangely familiar.

Daniel raised his eyebrows before replying, "David."

_"I saw you on television today. Movie director."_

"Yeah."

_"So you decided to follow dad's footsteps, huh."_

"Yeah." He said vaguely.

_"Why?" _Why didn't you follow your dreams? Why did you keep yourself caged within those limits that he set?

"I wanted to."

There was silence on the other end.

"So, how are you doing?"

"_Good, I suppose... I got married last summer. Pamela."_

"Oh, that's good. Pretty girl?"

_"The prettiest."_ David agreed.

"I see. Congratulations."

_"Thanks. Well, congratulations to you too."_

"Yeah, thanks."

_"Okay then, bye."_

"Bye… no, wait."

_"Yes?"_

"I'm... glad you called."

There was a pause, and for a moment, Daniel was afraid David would hang up.

_"I'm glad too."_

There was a click as Daniel returned the phone back into its original position, not quite believing what had happened. His brother. David hadn't kept in touch since… since…

It was all so long ago, but the little Japanese boy in his brain told him, that it was never too late.

* * *

**Just plain strange. I hoped you liked the ending.**


End file.
